


Brace yourself and find a safe place

by distortedmya



Series: Brace yourself [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Coming Out, Explicit Language, Homophobic Language, M/M, Post-Hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 20:58:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7907446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distortedmya/pseuds/distortedmya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the most part, Joe is handling this... thing.<br/>He cleaned out all the boxes, took out the trash (in the night time, hidden under a hoodie) and actually fixed the bathroom handle (only after that damned thing fell on his foot). He's doing fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brace yourself and find a safe place

**Author's Note:**

> AThis wouldn't exist without the lovely [Rosie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rosiedoesfic/pseuds/rosiedoesfic), who's not only the great captain of the Patroh ship but also one of the sweetest people you'll ever meet.
> 
> If it wasn't for her I wouldn't have started writing again after almost 5 years, I wouldn't have challenged myself with a language I don't feel I've completely mastered and I wouldn't be so proud of this little silly thing as I am now. She also beta'd the shit out of this fic, so, yeah, she's basically my angel guardian angel.
> 
> _________________________________
> 
> This fic was written for the [FOBCC](http://fobcc.tumblr.com/) challenge of August 2016. My prompt was powder blue.

  
  


 

The first day goes... pretty okay, if Joe may say so himself.

He wakes up in his bed alone, stares at the impossibly high ceiling for 17 minutes with his head full of dread and there's a teeny, tiny moment while he's brushing his teeth in which his body goes rigid with panic and cold sweat glues some damp curls on his forehead, but that's to be expected, isn't it? He didn't make the biggest mistake of his entire life, that's just, you know, excited jitters, or something. He's living a new beginning after all, an opportunity to start a different phase of his life as a new, improved individual. Except it doesn't look like a rebirth, rather like a crazy roller-coaster of maniac exaltation and terror, and that's exactly how his stomach feels when he steps out of the bathroom and fully realizes where he is.

There's no bright hallway in front of him, no framed pictures hung on light cream walls, no white door left ajar so the dog can go say good morning to his daughter by slobbering all over her face. There's an old, fragile looking door, instead, with a crooked handle that leads into what may once have been a mini office, now appointed as his new bedroom, and what the estate agent enthusiastically called a “wide open-space” that is nothing more than a big dining room with a tiny kitchenette and a sofa. On the left, behind a closed door, there's the ultimate reason why Joe decided on this pathetic excuse of an apartment instead of keep looking: a big double room with huge windows and wood flooring.

His new flat is every kind of miserable and broken, but Joe feels a sort of paternal fondness for it, the same kind of fondness that threatens to overwhelm him when he remembers being 15 and following Pete around the Chicago scene like a puppy. If he could go back in time and speak to that scared little boy with a weird bleach job he would pat him on the back and maybe teach him a thing or two about being a proper friend and a decent human being.

Teenage Joe would have loved this place: tiny on the verge of being claustrophobic, soaked with that classic broke college student vibe mixed with fashionably vintage decline, but clean and cosy. It was everything he thought his early twenties would be, rough and amazing all at once. It's really not in its best shape (the walls are all in serious need of a painting and the door of the shower has to be punched a little bit to stay in its place), but he would have loved to work on it to make it his own, hand-made home.

He likes this apartment, he really does. But at the same time he can't help to feel like he played right into the hands of his latent habit of completely submerging into his own thoughts and shaping his world around his struggles and emotions. It's something he's uncomfortably aware of and something he's been working on since he was a teenager, but one look at the almost romantic decay of the heavy curtains and the chipped wood floors makes him realizes that he is still incapable of mask his own feelings. The whole place reminds him of the kind of scenery in which an eighteenth-century noble woman would dramatically faint on the sofa and get consumed by her unrequited and forbidden love. It perfectly reflects the existential crisis he's living, his frustration and dread, and that's the exact reason why he unconsciously felt so fascinated by it.

He sits on the couch for a couple of minutes, disoriented and fucking terrified, looking every bit the above-mentioned noble woman, before (kind of) getting his shit together and starting to do something. After a couple of hours of meticulous and mindless cleaning, he collapses once again on the couch face down, mashing his glasses onto his cheek, fully inclined to remain there until doomsday (or until his stomach starts complaining). He needs to finish unpacking, get rid of the mess of cardboard and tape, cook something and maybe call his brother. He clenches his fingers into the cushion and closes his eyes shut.

Not today.

  
  


-  


  
  


Monday is the absolute worst.

For the most part, Joe is handling this... thing. He cleaned out all the boxes, took out the trash (in the night time, hidden under a hoodie) and actually fixed the bathroom handle (only after that damned thing fell on his foot). He's doing fine. In the last couple of days he has felt almost 23, old enough to know how to theoretically take care of himself, but still with that hint of immaturity and cockiness that allows him to use tape to fix that famous handle without feeling (too) guilty. That's is exactly the reason why despite rationally knowing that a grocery shopping trip is needed, he has survived on cereals and delivered food for almost a week. It's okay, though, he's justified, he's coping as best as he can and self-care is the most important thing anyway, as both his therapist and Tumblr keep reminding him. He ignores the fact that up to this point the only things he's actually found the will to do—in the name of self-care, of course—have been avoiding the double room like the black plague, forgetting to shave and lethargically napping all day long on the couch. It's okay, though,  _ he _ 's okay, he just needs time to regain a little bit of stability and purpose in his life.

But by Monday he's run out of cereals and if he had to eat one more cold pizza slice he's going to throw the microwave out of the window. He internally debates for a couple of minutes about the benefits of wolfing down the emergency stockpile of frozen lasagna Marie gave him last week along with the memory of her sweetest smile; he actually opens the fridge and stares lovingly at it, before forcing himself into the shower and then into a clean and respectable pair of black sweats. He wears his favourite ratty Metallica t-shirt, which kind of nullifies his efforts in trying not to look too much like a hobo but helps him feeling a little bit more like himself—he's been using it as a security blanket since he was 16. He tops it off with a jacket (black eco-leather, courtesy of his favourite vegan drummer) and a beanie.

His reflected image on the mirror is the perfect portrait of the last few weeks of his life: that terrible excuse of a stubble is trying to grow gives him a unruly and wildly young vibe, but under the beanie some grey hair has started to appear already; he's wearing a t-shirt he still loves with the same feral fervour of 15 years ago, but it's so faded the logo has almost completely disappeared and the fabric now stretches somewhat uncomfortably on his stomach.

He's never been the type to be self-conscious about his body. He's never had that kind of sensual charisma Pete has, he's aware of that, but he's always thought he was mostly okay-looking, even in his worst phases (horrific memories of straightened curls and terrible bleach jobs try to resurface, but he promptly suppresses them). He's 32, definitely too old to be developing teenage doubts about his belly and (lack of) abs, but the kind of images and feelings he's been exposed to lately are already shaking his foundation, one more thing to stress and worry about won't make any differences in the grand scheme of messes that his life has been lately.

He doesn't feel strong enough to fight these thoughts today, he barely feels like getting up in the morning, so he zips the jacket around his torso with frustration, picks up the keys and leave before the image of failure he sees in the mirror forces him under the covers of his bed again.

The trip to the store in quite uneventful. He finds some kind of ease in the mechanical habits of driving, of checking the lights and trying to guess the moment in which the milometer will switch to the next mile, but it's all lost when a quick look at the rear mirror shows him no sign of Ruby's child seat and plushies. As that wasn't enough, in the parking lot there's a girl of about 10, playing with a small, fluffy dog while her father loads the car. He misses his daughter. He misses his dog. He knows all of this was necessary for him, but at the same time he's can't help but think of it as the biggest mistake of his life.

Once inside, he hastily throws in a basket a couple of random canned soups (that's healthy, right?) and some sliced bread, before reluctantly leading himself towards the fruit aisle. An old lady stares at him disapprovingly from the vegetables and he has to forcibly convince himself that it's because he looks like a criminal and not because old ladies have suddenly grown mind-reading superpowers while he was secluded in his misery. He can't wait to go back to his new home and hole up in his bedroom.

It's not until he gets to the check out that his little brave trip takes an even more distressing twist.

Right in front of him there are two teenage girls, holding a basket full of sugary soft drinks and junk food; they're quite lively, whispering secrets at each other's ears and giggling loudly, complaining about homework, putting their items on the check out clumsily and laughing when one of them drops a carton of apple juice. He's not annoyed by their energy in the slightest: he remembers with a pinch of guilt and a bitter smile what  _ he _ used to do at that age and it was way worse than disturbing a tiny grocery store on a Wednesday evening. They look like the average girl you would find at their concerts and Joe finds himself tugging his beanie more firmly on his forehead, suddenly afraid of a look of fannish adoration he's sure he doesn't deserve. He's even considering pretending to have forgotten something in order to switch line when the shortest one (she has pixie hair and a bunny backpack) raises on her tiptoes and press the softest kiss on her girlfriend's lips.

The whole line drops into a glacial silence.

Joe burns up with an awful mix of shame and horror and, he swears, he wishes with every fibre in his body he could simply not make a big deal out of it; he wishes he could just smile at them encouragingly when they both, suddenly embarrassed, look around with shy eyes to see if anyone caught them. He wishes he could offer them the same placid but wholehearted support he offered a scared ginger boy with the voice of a thunder 12 years ago, without the utter awkwardness that followed. He's stunned into an horrific stillness instead coupled with a violent twisting of his stomach, and the sudden ringing in his ears almost drowns out the cashier’s disgusted voice.

“ 'cking dykes.”

The girls freeze, mortified. The one with the bunny backpack looks straight ahead with faked indifference, but her lower lip starts shivering almost immediately; her girlfriend, taller than Joe and with big, kinky hair, takes her hand and holds it so tight her knuckles go white. Both of them seem to shrink under this pathetic little boy's stare and Joe feels the telltale signs of a big storm brewing low and heavy inside him, quickly replacing both shame and cold sweat. He feels his skin burning with rage. He clings to his basket with all his strength, torn between being the bigger person and exploding like a fucking volcano all over this poor excuse of a human being.

“ I don't understand why people like you won't just stay in fucking Boystown.”

Joe drops his basket. His beloved canned soups clang loudly against each other and the pack of beers he guiltily picked up on his way to the register makes an awful noise when it falls on its side, but it luckily doesn't break; there's a lonely apple that comically rolls along the floor and stops right at the girls feet. They both turn around with big, glistening eyes.

“ And I don't understand why people like you can't just do their job without being a fucking dickhead.”

Joe hears an old lady behind him (maybe the same who looked at him like he was an immoral sinner before?) exhale a scandalized hiss. He would love to just look back and exactly tell her how scandalous he really is, but he needs to flee, both because he feels like he needs an exit worthy of that dramatic line and because the feeling of everyone staring at him is starting to make him feel sick.

He promptly abandons his stuff and doesn't look back until he's in his car, skipping on his usual routines and speeding out of the parking lot. When he gets home he locks the door, tears the clothes off of himself and slams the shower door shut. Only when the scalding water starts burning his skin he realizes he's been shaking since he left the store.

Well, fuck.

That went well.

  
  


-

  
  


His second try at acting like a normal human being and performing ordinary, everyday chores doesn't come until Friday. He and Marie agreed on two weeks and he's already wasted one being a sad pale ghost of his angsty teenage self. He needs to get his shit together.

As soon as he enters the hardware store, a middle aged lady politely attacks him with slow, gentle words of reassurance. She sounds like a particularly patient elementary teacher helping a struggling student with his homework, but Joe's not offended by that: he knows perfectly well he looks nothing like the lumberjack DIY type that builds actual tree houses in his free time. He has even worn his best flannel shirt that morning in the hope of an extra boost in masculine confidence, but now he just feels like a tool. The lady, “Call me Martha, my dear”, doesn't look put off by his tattoos and unruly beard and her face explodes in a delightful smile when he tells her about her daughter's room, so Joe likes her. She's quite nice.

The ridiculous amount of shades available is less nice. He actually spends half an hour following Martha around the aisle like a lost puppy while she hands him samples of “this gorgeous cotton candy, very feminine and delicate, or maybe a patriarch, fitting for the bravest warrior princess”. Joe doesn't really know if Ruby would prefer a feminine pink or a warrior purple (because fuck all those pretentious names, that's a fucking purple), at the moment she switches effortlessly between fairy dresses and car toys, but he sure as hell doesn't want anything named 'patriarch' in his kid's room. He smiles and carefully listens at Martha nonetheless, because both his grandma and mom have instilled in him a deep fondness for soft-spoken, stubborn ladies. Martha beams at him like he's her favourite nephew and pats his arm amicably, before leaving him by himself like a baby deer in the woods to politely fend off a noisy group of children from a pyramid of tidily arranged cans.

Alone in hostile territory, the only logical thing that comes to his mind is calling for reinforcement. He precariously balances his phone between his shoulder and ear, picks up a random colour—it's called quinacridone magenta—and pretends to look at it with some sort of thoughtfulness, because the aisle is getting quite crowded with actual lumberjack men with proper flannels and he wants to look like he's a professional (he really isn't) who knows what he's doing (he really doesn't).

Fucking toxic masculinity.

“ What are your thoughts on powder blue?” is the first thing he says when his call for help receives an answer and even at his ears it sounds ridiculous; isn't he supposed to be good at décor? Isn't that what society considers his best (and only) asset?

The line is silent for a very long time before a befuddled cluster of sounds reaches his ear.

“ Whazzit?”

Joe puts down the quinacridone magenta with what he wants to believe is a smooth move and goes back to his first choice, balancing it precariously on the shelf, next to a muted dark green.

“ I like viridian as well, it looks kind of like a forest, but maybe it's too dark. Ruby's not fond of darkness. Says there are goblins there, trying to eat her feet.”

There's another, long silence in his ear, then some ruffled noise of crumpled sheets and yawning, and Joe can perfectly picture Patrick groping the cabinet for his glasses while scrunching his nose in confusion.

“ What the... the hell are you- goblins?” he exhales with a voice thick with morning (it's half past three in the afternoon), grogginess and a hint of annoyance. Joe ignores the latter and goes on, because at this point he feels like rambling like an idiot is better than thinking about how bothersome he’s been lately to basically everyone around him. He steadies his breath to start talking again.

“ The most obvious would be pink, y'know, or wait, sorry,  _ rose bonbon _ , but, dude, I don't want her to grow up thinking she has to like pink just because she's a girl, y'know? Or that she has to, like, do ballet or play with dolls or like girly things just because she's a girl. She can be a princess or a warrior or a Spiderman if she wants. She likes Chewbacca,” he adds at the end as an afterthought and then almost bites his tongue in an effort to actually shut the fuck up.

“ Are you okay?”

The thing is, and it's something that makes Joe want to cry into those stupid paint cans in the middle of the store, that at the moment he not only is absolutely and irremediably not okay, but he actually feels like a little stupid kid, awkward, naïve and living in a claustrophobic hellhole. It feels like the last 13 years of his life were lived by another person, like he only got to see that from a screen until now and he has to pick up from here because his stupid, selfish and inadequate adult self couldn't handle the absolute perfection that his life has become without fucking it up somehow.

And the fact that despite the hiatus, the years and the awkwardness of knowing each other for so long and having seen each other at their worst, Patrick is still able to read him like they were 19 is kind of too much for Joe to handle right now.

“ Is everything okay?”

Joe would love to tell him that no, nothing is okay, that his world is crumbling around him and he doesn't know what to do; he'd like to tell him that he just wants to hide in a closet (oh, the irony) for the rest of his life because he's not ready to face a world in which his daughter may learn soon how her biggest hero is, in reality, a huge disappointment.

“ I can't decide between powder blue and viridian.” mutters Joe as a now familiar shiver of panic whips him on the spine.

“ I like powder blue,” says Patrick after just the slightest hesitation. “And I'll see you at your place in an hour.”

  
  


-  


  
  


“ Nice... stubble,” says Patrick very carefully when Joe opens the door. Despite having learnt how to shape his face into the most amicable and sociable expressions in a matter of seconds, Patrick still has the most spontaneous reactions among them and Joe can still catch the initial look of pure astonishment in his friend's eyes. He doesn't blame him, though, he's spent enough time in front of the mirror to know he looks life a pale photocopy of an out-of-shape zombie.

“ I look like I've been living into the woods for a month.”

Patrick starts spluttering in the fervid attempt of denying the obvious and find something in favour of that pathetic thing that's growing on Joe's chin (it looks as depressed as he feels), because Patrick is just that kind of friend, the one that treats you like a precious and confused newborn giraffe when you're miserable—and a confused newborn giraffe is exactly how Joe would describe himself at the moment. He lets him talk gibberish for a few seconds before circling his shoulders with an arm and holding him tight against his side. His cap bumps into Joe's glasses and Joe finally feels like relaxing a little bit.

“ Thanks, dude.”

Patrick interrupts his enthusiastic monologue about beards (and that reminds Joe somehow of the glorious mane he had grown out some 8 years ago; now  _ that _ was something to be proud of—Marie had not so discreetly hated every second of it) and wraps his arms around Joe's waist.

“ I believe that I am to help you with some painting, right?” he announces after squeezing the everliving shit out of his middle. Joe has missed this kind of relaxed intimacy between the two of them.

Patrick is an organised perfectionist and it only takes a a few minutes to him to take the reins of the job in his hands. He categorically refuses to let Joe do anything involving even the slightest effort (“I  _ guess _ you could help by opening the cans.”) and only after a relatively long and overly polite quarrel, does he let him try to paint a little bit (“Don't strain your back, dude, I'm serious. We need you in one piece and I'm literally here for this.”)

Seeing Patrick improvising at something is always fascinating and endearing in equal parts. He's the ultimate, anthropomorphic form of the “fake it 'til you make it” philosophy; he puts an unlimited enthusiasm and passion in whatever he's doing, regardless of whether he actually knows anything about it, so Joe's not surprised to see him dance around the brushes and paint cans like it's his job and making an absolute and unapologetic mess on the floor—thank God Joe's rare flash of foresight has convinced him to cover the wood with old newspapers.

Maybe Andy would have been a better choice in terms of efficiency and speed, but if there's someone that can sometimes make Joe feel like a juvenile idiot, that's Andy. He doesn't do it on purpose, he's probably the reincarnation of everything good and pure in the universe, but he just has his shit too much together in Joe's opinion. Andy was already this kind of young sage at 24, while Joe was still busy destroying his scalp with bleach and kissing helpless and charming bisexual boys outside smelly venues.

At that thought, Joe focuses on the corner opposite to where Patrick is earnestly showering himself with powder blue paint; he starts painting a large stripe directly at his hands' height—Patrick forbade him to do anything that involves him raising his arms and bending his back. The affectionate and fond threats had taken a little over ten minutes to become full on orders and Joe finds himself obeying with a little smile on his face, really not wanting Patrick to “kick his scrawny ass into oblivion.”

He swallows, casts down his eyes and clears his throat a couple of times for good measure.

“ Dude, I'm gay.”

Joe can feel the exact moment in which Patrick stops struggling with the brush, can feel his stare digging into his back and the pity he's been trying (unsuccessfully) to mask since the call at the hardware store shifting into understanding first, and then deep, unconditional fondness.

“ That's why...“ He gesticulates vaguely at the room, keeping his eyes on his feet and his back towards Patrick. “Yeah. It's, it's a new thing. I didn't, like, keet it a secret intentionally, I mean. I'm still-“ deepdeep _ deep _ breath “-still adjusting, y'know?”

Joe's about to explode. He hears nothing but a violent ringing in his ears and the mad stomping of his heart. The peace Patrick has brought with his hugs and smile get swallowed by the sour twist in which his stomach has tied itself. He has no doubt about Patrick being the most supportive and loyal person in the whole universe, but this is the first time has said it out loud; with Marie it had been a matter of Joe babbling and crying and her reassuring him (like  _ he _ was the one who needed to be comforted). Admitting it out loud and hearing his voice sounding strained around the words set some kind of finality that had not reached him yet in the last, miserable week.

He expects Patrick to start talking with a quiet yet steady voice, to murmur words as sweet as warm honey, to show him for the umpteenth time how fucking lucky Joe was to be interrupted by that pretentious little boy that time in Borders. He doesn't expect to be touched, though, and flinches violently, managing at the same time to slap himself in the face with the brush. The result is not that pretty and sure as hell not that tasty.

“ Oh my goodness, man, I didn't mean to startle you," Patrick says softly, like he would to an injured baby deer, but he keeps his hand firmly on Joe's arm, rubbing slowly on his exposed skin and squeezing gently his biceps. Joe fidgets with the brush, torn between wanting to collapse into Patrick's arms and shrugging off his touch with a fake smile. He seriously doubts Patrick would buy it, they've been through too much shit together, so he just leans his forehead on Patrick's shoulder and finally lets himself be comforted.

Patrick gives fucking amazing hugs, that's a given. He just seems unable to half-ass anything in life (be it song writing or courtesy talk with restaurant staff) and his affection never falls short of these expectations. When he was young and idiotic Joe used to be kind of embarrassed by it; still trapped in the stupid 'no homo' mentality the hardcore scene had carved into his brain, Patrick's intensity used to make Joe even more awkward—and that is saying something, as Joe was (and maybe still somehow is) the biggest dork on this side on the Atlantic.

He's never been particularly proud to admit that despite his resolutions, Patrick's coming out had actually changed a lot in their relationship. Joe had started avoiding certain behaviours for starters, especially those linked to the ease with which the word 'gay' was thrown around among their circle of friends. But above all, that clumsy conversation had gifted Joe with a new awareness of his body and Patrick's touch on his body. That had not been an easy year, for 'lil awkward Joey.

But Joe's 32 now, and he's just came out to his best friend, so he guesses he can allow himself not to give a flying fuck about how long a hug between two platonic buddies should or should not last—a super serious matter that used to keep him awake at night, back in the day. He just dives right into Patrick's arms, gripping at his solid shoulders and granting himself a well deserved moment of weakness.

Patrick just keeps whispering into his ear, fingers gently clamped on the back of his neck, almost imperceptibly rocking their weights. During this admittedly awkward but so needed dance, Patrick leads him to a slow descent towards the ground; they reach the floor gracelessly, scraping loudly against the still wet wall and bumping into each other's knees. After a couple of seriously uncoordinated attempts to find a comfortable position that doesn't kill Joe's back—one of which ends with Patrick's elbow painfully stabbing his thigh—they sit at each other's sides, with their backs against the wall and their legs stretched out. Joe once again rests his head on Patrick shoulder, ignores his crooked glasses and sighs deeply.

Patrick's murmuring starts to fade into a low humming—and of-fucking-course it's Bowie—before it's interrupted by a short breathy laugh.

“ Do you remember that night, in 2004?”

Joe groans, immediately rolling himself into a little ball of shame while Patrick starts sniggering like the little fucker he is. Joe would really love everyone who has ever described Patrick as 'cherubic' to see him now, laughing at his best friend's shame with a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

“ We were in Camden, if I remember correctly?” he goes on with a sugary voice and then adjusts his glasses like an asshole.

“ Dude. You're violating the pact,” Joe says with the most serious face he can achieve with a cuddly and giggling Patrick stuck to his side. “The pact all bands inevitably subscribe to at their birth, namely the agreement never to speak of—capital letters—Embarrassing Things Ever Again.”

He's basically lived with the same three dudes for the best part of 15 years and the only reason why they haven't yet killed each other (attempts were made quite often, as Joe recalls) and haven't been banned from exposure to the public resides in this golden, unwritten rule. There could be an encyclopaedia written about all the stupid shit they've done and Joe doesn't think he's being overdramatic in placing that particular night in 2004 in his personal top five.

“ Come on, I am serious.”

“ Me too, dude, believe me. That night should just be erased from history.”

Patrick hesitates a couple of seconds, eyes fixed on the hands on his lap, before replying.

“ It's one of the best memories I have.”

Joe wants to scoff at that, because, really? He'd been the biggest loser on the fucking planet, and kind of a douchebag as well, and surely there are other highlights in their relationship that deserve the top of the rank and don't include him making an ass out of himself. Dude needs to get his priorities straight. Or, you know, whatever.

“ You keep saying that it was awkward and stupid and shit, but it was the first time that, like, I felt like I was not a complete mistake, you know? Like that my life could have gone to hell, but at least I had one person who still somehow wanted to be my friend.”

Joe is stunned into silence.

He actually doesn't know what to say about that, he's always thought that evening was a great embarrassing mess, from start to finish. They were young and stupid—or more accurately,  _ he _ was young and stupid, Patrick already had that aura of shyness and composure that so often people mistook for maturity—and neither of them had yet learnt how to deal with their life. They had just begun to live a glimpse of fame and that surely hadn't helped in making Joe smoother or more comfortable in his own dorky skin.

“ I was already the fat kid, y'know?” And at that Joe starts to splutter because his chub has never prevented him from being the most amazing person in Joe's life and he's pretty sure they have all been telling Patrick this since day one. “Coming out as bisexual was out of the question.”

Joe remembers that time with something akin to melancholy and fury. He remembers being so mad his stomach literally hurt about this fucking spectacular kid hiding behind long hair and trucker caps. He remembers trashing around like a crazy monkey on stage (and banging his very gangly limbs on speakers and people alike) just to extort a tiny smile from this terrified little boy with a voice bigger than himself. He remembers picking a fight with a dickhead in a smelly venue in Syracuse despite being a scrawny little fuck whose only fight up to that point had been with his little brother about legos. That time they were kicked out of the place after Pete's intervention, a vicious mix of venomous anger, choked screams and bony punches, and afterwards Patrick had taken care of their battle wounds—bloody knuckles for Pete, a busted lip and a very impressive black eye for Joe—calling them idiots while applying band-aids.

“ You were the only person I felt I could trust at that time. It took me years to be comfortable enough to tell other people,” Patrick says, when Joe's indignant babbling blurs into a soft murmur of disagreement.

Joe feels the irresistible need to scoff once again, because, really, “telling people” is kind of an euphemism.

Patrick had announced it suddenly on a short and concise video in the middle of his solo tour (it has more views on YouTube than Sugar's music video) and the incredibly calm ease of his words had reminded Joe terribly of the brilliant and fake smiles he used to carve on his face whenever he felt horribly scared. Joe had guiltily dropped everything he was doing—Josh had patted him on the shoulder and shooed him out of the studio with an understanding look—and bought the first ticket to Chicago, fully expecting to revive that 2004 night with the added awkwardness of not having seen each other in person for almost two years.

But when he had arrived in that small venue in Chicago Loop, Patrick was nowhere to be seen. There was another person on stage, one that Joe struggled to recognize. A young man with spiked hair and suave suit who was dancing around with sharp hips and quick hands, a scarlet feather boa around his neck, and singing his heart's content to a tiny sea of rainbow flags.

For a very long instant Joe seriously thought that he might be in a very, weird weed-induced dream, even if he had stopped smoking regularly at least 4 years ago. He had listened to his album, of course he had, but he was unable to reconcile this image even with the most carefree and explosive tracks on the record.

He had stayed hidden in the shadow and with every second he had felt the smile on his lips and the giddiness in his chest growing bigger. At the end he had clapped as enthusiastically as the kids in the audience, bursting in a cheer for good measure—he was pretty sure one of the security guys looked at him like he was insane, he didn't exactly blend with the rest of the crowd. He was so fucking ecstatic he felt like starting an impressive pogoing in the pit, if only his back didn't prevent him from even just laying comfortably in his own bed sometimes.

Patrick's coming out had been his absolute rebirth. Never had Joe seen him so unbelievably happy and comfortable in his own skin (and he sure as hell could have gone on perfectly fine without seeing him flirting,  _ flirting _ , with that lanky guitarist of his), never has he been so at ease under his—rightful—spotlight.

“ You still with me, Joe?”

The Patrick he turns to look at now is a soft blend of the awkward kid and the shameless performer, with quiet confidence in his eyes and the shyest smile on his lips. Joe likes him. He likes the little proud smiles that have taken place of the self-deprecating shrugs, he likes the rosy cheeks he still gets when he realizes someone is hitting on him.

“ Were you scared?”

“ About coming out?” Patrick tilts his head, “Not really. It was a very weird moment for me. I was scared shitless about performing alone for the first time, but I think after the first couple of shows I just thought, fuck it, and really got into it, you know? I couldn't hide behind you guys any more, so I just became this sort of... brassy and bold character on stage to make up for the fact that I didn't know what I was doing.”

It's Patrick's turn to rest his head on Joe's shoulder and Joe gets suddenly assaulted by bright coloured memories of the both of them half-laying on the hood of the van in silence, waiting for Pete and Andy to attend parties and get laid.

“ It's like... since there was so much going on at that moment my brain, like, decided to just stop thinking about things? I think I've lived on adrenaline and caffeine alone for a couple of years. Coming out to the public was the easiest thing I've done, out of everything.”

Joe thinks about coming out in public and his stomach physically twists on itself.

“ Coming out to you was terrifying.”

“ Dude, don't be ridiculous. I was a short harmless kid with bad hair. Nothing to be scared of.”

“ I know that now. Back then, you were an incredibly cool guy that somehow wanted to be in a band with me. You had been in tour at 15 with Arma and were on a friendly basis with Andy fucking Hurley and I was, you know, just Patrick.” He lies his head against the wall (paint will be a bitch to scrub off his cap) “And you were super nice to me and wanted to actually hang out with me, I didn't want to ruin anything. But given your reaction, in hindsight my fears were misplaced.” He ends it with a gentle laugh.

Joe had been 19 and still waiting to wake up one day and realize this crappy and awesome thing they were doing was a dream, when Patrick had gripped his hand so tight his nails had carved his palm and spluttered out a lengthy and confused monologue about liking girls and boys in the same way and hoping that it wouldn't change anything because he really wanted to stay in the band, man, he really did and he really hoped he hadn't just fucked everything up. Joe had been 19 and definitely not skilled enough with his words to handle it in a healthy, normal way so he had done the only thing his stressed out and take aback brain had deemed appropriate: kissing Patrick.

“ I was an awkward little fuck, wasn't I?”

“ You were,” Patrick agrees immediately. “We all were, but I really thought you were cool back then, you know? That you were, like, one of those super chill, open-minded and non-judgemental guys, you know? That are like... like, so confident in themselves and their sexuality they have no problems kissing other guys? I don't know.”

Despite being an overall laid back guy on the outside—Andy had nicknamed his apparent lack of worry and shame “the Trohman Chill” back in the day—Joe sharpest memory of that time is the constant and almost uncontrollable need to scream his brain off out of anxiety and fear. Confident was not exactly the word he'd use to describe his teenage self. Like, at all.

“ Patrick, dude, you were blind.”

“ Yeah,” he replies with a fond smile. “I think it lasted a couple of days, then you did a very idiotic thing with Pete and all my thoughts of admiration burned into ashes. It was still sweet that you kissed me, I never saw it as you being a dick, you were very supportive.”

Joe laughs hoarsely, suddenly embarrassed and eager to change topic.

“ And twenty years later and we're here again, dude, on opposite sides, with you being very supportive of this mess of a friend you have. The only thing missing is the kiss.”

It's only when Patrick huffs a little incredulous laugh that Joe actually realizes what the fuck he's just said and starts digging his own grave, one stuttering splutter at a time.

“ Dude,” he actually starts panicking a little bit as Patrick keeps smiling like a Cheshire cat, “I wasn't implying to, y'know, or, like, anything, y'know? It was just a stupid observation, I didn't mean to... do... that.”

Patrick is full on giggling now and Joe feels kind of hot in the cheeks but also so,  _ so _ relieved; he actually feels like laughing at himself instead of banging his head on the wet wall. He looks sideways at Patrick with a shy grin only to meet his stare, green and blue and deep and familiar, the ghost of his laugh still lingering on his face.

Then Patrick leans forward slowly and kisses him lightly on the corner of the lips. Joe actually gasps out loud a little bit—it must be International Stupid Reactions Day today—before closing his eyes. He's expecting the weird scraping of stubble to send him spiralling into denial, but it actually makes his stomach drop low and warm and he finds himself gripping Patrick’s thigh when he moves away slightly, eyes blinking slowly, his pupils dilated and dark. Joe loses himself in the gentle slope of his nose and his ginger-blonde eyelashes—and fuck him, the years has really made him a wimp.

“ Is this okay?” Patrick murmurs against his lips and Joe can't help but tasting them again, just for a second, cupping his jaw with a hand, before replying with raspy voice.

“ Of-fucking-course it is, dude.”

It's really not that different from 12 years ago, Joe notices with that little, still-conscious side of his mind that never stops running, not even when he's being enthusiastically kissed by his very attractive and very bisexual best friend. If nothing, Joe's stupid brain unhelpfully offers him, they're both better kissers than when they were at 19 (or at least he hopes he is). Patrick has lost those endearing, anxious nerves of the first time and he's confident and bold with his hands, in a way Joe didn't think could make his blood boil in his veins. He's a little taken aback when Patrick’s fingers skid teasingly under the hem on his stupid flannel shirt, but quickly retorts with a firm grip on the back of his neck.

They make out like eager teenagers for a couple of minutes, immersed in the bright orange light of the sunset seeping in from the windows, before Joe's neck starts screaming. He doesn't stop kissing Patrick—the strong contrast between soft lips and harsh stubble is driving him crazy— but his hand stealthily tries to glide from his neck to his shoulder, down his biceps and elbow, before slipping under his arm and onto his waist. At the first, tentative pressure Patrick moves away firmly, a sly but fond smile on his wet lips. Joe feels like he's gonna explode.

“ I'm not sitting on your lap, Trohman, we're not 17 any more.”

“ I don't know about you, man, but I didn't used to sit on older dudes' laps when I was 17.”

“ Oh, shut up, asshole.”

“ Well, I'd gladly sit on yours, dude, I swear, but I'm pretty sure my back would kill me.”

Patrick makes a soft, displeased sound, before diving himself into the kiss once again. Joe's neck won't have any of it, unfortunately.

“ Wait, dude, let me—“

Joe considers his options briefly—a very difficult task with a laughing Patrick fully intent on kissing him and groping his arms (was that a thing in Joe's turn ons list? It is now.)—before unsticking himself from the wall with a painful ripping sound from his shirt (fuck that flannel, anyway) and manhandling Patrick in front of him, legs crossed and a very dubious look on his face.

“ Are you done?”

Joe nods, the biggest smile tearing its way into his face, before cupping Patrick's jaw and bring their lips together once again. It may become his new favourite thing in the world. Practices have just become ten times harder—Andy's going to be moderately pissed about it, Pete’s going to tease them until the end of their days. Joe laughs into the kiss, teeth knocking again Patrick's; his belly feels wound up, tight and heavy, his chest is about to burst open and he can't shake off the urge to laugh, even through the sharp stabs of pain in his upper vertebrae.

“ This isn't working, is it?” Patrick whispers directly on his lips and that leads in another, intense fit of kisses and laughs in equal measure. He's the one to actually break off what has become teeth clashing with each other, turning his head to the side and offering the soft curve of his cheek to Joe's eager mouth.

“ I have a very comfortable couch,” murmurs Joe against his neck, before giving the vulnerable spot under his ear a gentle bite that sends a full body shudders through Patrick’s spine. He leans forward even more, strong fingers tightening on his arms and an almost inaudible gasp leaving his throat.

They stumble into the living room giggling like actual kids, bumping into furniture and dropping on the couch—“Careful!” shout-whispers Patrick when he falls like a dead weight—and they start exploring each other once again (Patrick does finally end up on his lap. “Living your teenage perverted dream?” “Shut the fuck up.”). They still bump their noses and clash their teeth, and Patrick actually huffs in annoyance and takes off both of their glasses after the third time he's almost lost an eye, but Joe wouldn't have it any other way.

When the frenzy starts to fade out, they slowly slip into a more relaxed and comfortable position, Joe laying on his back with a small pillow supporting his neck and Patrick lying half on his side and half on his chest, his weight reassuring him and preventing him from floating into the air out of sheer elation.

“ So,” says Patrick after a couple of blissful, lazy kisses; he clears his hoarse throat and that sends a funny vibration trough Joe's chest “we should probably talk about this.”

Joe inhales slowly and then exhales on Patrick's forehead, blowing some strands of hair directly into his eyes. Patrick huffs a disgruntled snort and pinches his side pretty hard for it to be an innocuous and petty revenge. Joe feels a little like resurfacing from a dark ocean and taking the first deep breath in a long time.

“ Tomorrow, dude.”

He drapes an arm across Patrick's shoulder, dark ink against pale, freckled skin.

“ Tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

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